At some point during this surreal dream, one of the detectives approaches Mother. I listen, not wanting to hear. The only word I make out is suicide. The word echoes in my head, coinciding with the pounding in my skull, over and over again until it loses its meaning.
Another ghost materializes beside me. A low voice says something I don’t hear. I look up, squinting, begging their pardon. It’s my cousin, Henry.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” Henry says, patting my back. “You sure fucking need it.”
————————
I sit at the bar with the bitter taste of whiskey in my mouth. It’s one of those places in a fancy hotel, fuck if I know which one, where stuffy suits drink on their lunch break hoping to find a high class prostitute, one of the red lipsticked women who are way too hot to be interested in the geezers here without monetary compensation. I know a few of the ‘working girls,’ as we all make the rounds of the high class bars. They leave me alone, knowing by now that I don’t like to pay for it. I’ve almost convinced a couple to let me sample their wares for free.
There’s a mirror behind the bar. I catch my reflection through the standing bottles of liquor. I look like utter shit. My hair is a mess, looking like a dark mop plopped on my head. My five o’clock shadow is dark and course, though it’s not even noon. I haven’t loosened my tie or taken off my blazer. I haven’t thought to make myself more comfortable.
Henry’s tie is in his pocket, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He keeps raking his fingers through his hair. He looks distressed, but that’s his usual state. Sometimes I think it’s an act, because he carries a sturdy cool beneath it. When we were teenagers, he’d get on a dire subject, preaching the end of the world. He fancied himself to be socially conscious, so he’d talk about climate change or the seizing of aquifers by private companies, spitting off facts from an article he’d read. Then, just as I was convinced the sky was falling, he’d shrug his shoulders dismissively, dropping it all together. My therapist calls this a “power play.” But I can’t blame Henry. I’m guilty of power plays myself. In fact, after I learned about them, I made a point to practice them everyday.
Henry lifts his finger to the bartender, and orders us another round.
“Shit, Jack,” he says, passing a glass to me. “I don’t know what to say.”
His voice sends me spinning back to reality, along with it a surge of emotion that I dare not touch.
“Don’t say anything.” I tip the glass to my lips and drain it down. I’m not even aware of what’s in the glass. But it burns and warms me from the inside out.
Henry studies me like I’m a puzzle to solve. He tips his glass, the ice cubes clinking together, towards a woman at the end of the bar. She has long, raven black hair that hangs over one shoulder and dips into the deep cavern of her cleavage. Her perfect plump lips are painted red. She smiles and waves when she sees us looking.
“On me,” Henry offers.
I shake my head, just once. Henry goes quiet, drumming his fingers on the bar.
“Look at it this way,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “You’re getting a promotion.”
I feel something inside my head shake loose. The reflection in front of me turns a sick shade of gray. Henry immediately starts apologizing.
“I’m sorry, man, I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “You know I like dark humor.”
“Promotion.” My voice lands with a thud on the black granite bar in front of me.
“You’re taking over the company, right? That’s what the joke is about.”
“I get the joke,” I yell, slamming my fist on the bar, and making the patrons jump from shock. I rub my hands over my face. “Fuck,” tumbles out, under my breath.
I’m next in line to rule the kingdom my grandfather built, Larsen International, a luxury hotel chain with a presence in cities worldwide. When my grandfather, Otto Larsen, was running the business at his peak, the hotels were all caviar trays, champagne toasts, and women in furs in the dining room. My father, Jack Larsen, lowered the bar a little. Though still in the upper tier of hotel price range, “I’m staying at the Larsen” has lost some of its sparkle.
I’ve been told I’d take over for as long as I can remember. Greta is older than me, though she always insisted she didn’t want to work in the family business. She wanted to pursue opera. But she didn’t have to insist anything at all. Father would never put her in charge of the company. Maybe she just wanted to ignore the sexist fact that she was being overlooked for being female.
I am nowhere near prepared to be the CEO of a massive, multinational company. I’ve spent the past decade roving from party to party, hopping from bed to bed, chasing a high I haven’t yet gotten enough of. For the first time since my bloody discovery this morning, I think about last night. Every detail comes sharply into focus, like my brain is trying to prove that I’m not mature enough to fill Father’s shoes.
I’m at some exclusive club with a velvet rope out front, drinking champagne from the bottle in one of their VIP rooms. I’m wearing some version of what I’m wearing now, a suit and tie. I have a dummy title at Larsen International, Director of Promotions, whatever the hell that is, so I dress the part. Familiar faces slip in and out of my view, rich kids on the Manhattan party circuit. I’ve been at this for awhile, and the socialites are getting younger and younger. There are only a few characters from the original crew, a slew of trust fund kids around my age who all started partying at the same time. One could say that we started it. Before, rich kids went to boarding school and tea time, then inherited whatever their parents had to give them. My friends and I opened up a world of top shelf liquor, cocaine snorted through hundred dollar bills, and a competition in shamelessness.
Out of a dozen or so people in this rotating group of party comrades, there are only two that I count as real friends; Henry and Joel. Joel works at his father’s law firm, and is a talented lawyer himself. Henry’s family, and we’ve been close since we were kids. Everyone else is just a prop, their sole purpose to indulge my hedonism.
I look around the plush couches of the VIP room, knowing I could have any woman I want. I know how hot I am. I have plenty of time and money to spend hours in the gym chiseling my body. It gives me a rush to see women gawk at my cut abs. I’ve inherited the fine features of the Dutch on my father’s side, and the thick crown of nearly black hair from my mother.
A blonde with dew drop eyes is sidling up to me. The night is winding down, and everyone is looking for someone to go home with. Her legs are tan and toned beneath her shimmering silver skirt, but she’s too drunk for my taste. In fact, I don’t go for these Daddy’s little princess types at all. I like working class girls, the ones with wariness in their eyes. A part of me is jealous of them. They’ve seen the gritty, real side of reality while I’ve never even done my own laundry. I haven’t told my therapist, but I know what she’d say. My conquest of these women is about power, about owning them, proving my place in society.
Power play or not, the brunette waitress with freckles sprinkled across her cheeks is making my dick hard. Every time she bends to collect our empty bottles from the table, I peek down her shirt to the tops of her pale breasts. She catches me doing this a time or two, and gives me a flirty little smile.
I ditch the blonde and find the waitress after her shift. I’ve got seducing women down to a science, and all I have to do is go through the motions. First, I tease her a little, call her Freckle Face. Then, I blindside her with a compliment. “You have the most stunning green eyes.” I throw in another jab or two, then make myself appear vulnerable. “It’s hard to live an authentic life when everyone around you is so fake.” She clutches my face, her eyes soft with compassion, and I know now’s the time to make my move.
I pull her into the bathroom and back her against the wall. After ripping off her clothes, I fuck her from behind, pounding relentlessly until I come on her lower back. I like the way she reaches behind, gathers a little cum on he
r fingers, then spreads it on her pink lips. I decide that I want to fuck her again.
That’s why I rushed into Father’s office this morning. I wanted the keys to his yacht. I wanted to take the waitress, who’s name I don’t even know, out on the water, where I’d fuck her mouth, pussy, and ass.
I check my phone and see I’ve added a new contact. Her number is saved under CHLOE (FREAK). I stare at it a few moments before deleting it.
Henry has to half carry me out of the bar. I lean against him heavily, reliant on him for every step. In the back of the limo, I fall into a deep, dark sleep. I don’t remember how I make it up to my apartment, but suddenly, I’m waking up in my bed. I’m facedown in the pillow, still wearing the same suit. My limbs ache from the twisted up position I’ve been in for hours. There’s a sour taste in my mouth and the back of my throat.
My phone is making a lot of noise, dinging and vibrating across the floor by the bed. It’s a group chat about some party tonight. The commotion makes rage roil in the pit of my stomach. I grab my phone, squeezing so hard the screen could shatter. Before throwing it, I glance at the screen, and see Joel’s name in the flurry of texts.
I just heard. I’m so sorry, man. I’m here for you.
I launch the phone into the wall, then sink to my knees, sobbing.
————————
I float through the next few days in an alcohol and cocaine induced haze. I take any pill I can get my hands on. No one seems to notice. My faraway, drugged out look is easily contributed to my fresh grief. On the day of the funeral, someone dresses me in a suit and props me up on a church pew. Men in suits shake my hand. That’s all I remember.
At some point, I’m supposed to step up and seize my crown. My father always told me, men like us take what we want, what is rightfully ours, without apology. But I don’t even think about going into the office. I can’t bear riding up that elevator, getting off on his floor, going into the same room where I found him. I can clearly recall the oppressive, iron like smell of blood that fogged the air. No one says a word to me about it, but I know that won’t always be the case. Mother frets over me, sending her maids over to my place with soup. They read from a list of questions they’re supposed to ask me.
“Are you eating?”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Won’t you come see your mother?”
The honest answer to all three is ‘no,’ though I tell them opposite.
Other than Mother’s outsourced concern, I’m left alone. About two weeks in, I grow tired of the long days, the roundabout of questions in my mind. Why did he kill himself? Was he that unhappy? Was it because of me? Or was it something else?
I need to reach out of this self-induced isolation, if only temporarily. And plus, I’m out of coke. I find my phone where I’d launched it into the wall days before. I have hundreds of unread messages, mostly the group chats about where the next party is. There are a handful of messages from Joel.
My phone is half-dead, so I plug it into the wall to text Joel. He responds almost immediately.
Let’s meet for coffee.
I convince myself to go, reasoning that I could get my dealer to meet me near the coffee shop. So I could get my drugs, and assure Joel I’m not suicidal.
I throw on a hoodie and jeans. Even with this casual look, I still look like a fucking rich kid. Maybe because these jeans cost more than the average person’s entire wardrobe.
Once I step outside, I’m starkly aware of how horribly I’ve treated my body. A headache nags me with each step. I’m nauseous and hungry at the same time. Every joint aches. That’s what a steady diet of coke and liquor gets you.
I put my head down and start down the block. There’s a man yelling behind me. I ignore him, until I realize he’s calling my name.
“Mr. Larsen.” He catches up with me, panting.
I look warily into his face. He strikes me as familiar. He’s a foot shorter than me with pointy facial features, and gray wiry hair that flies around on the wind.
“Detective Simon,” he says, extending his hand. “We met the other day in your father’s office.”
“Right, of course,” I say, but I barely remember him.
“How are you? This must be a difficult time.”
“Getting by,” I say, gruffly. Joel texts me with the address to the coffee shop. “Is there anything I can help you with? I’m meeting a friend.”
“Oh, gosh.” Simon rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I was hoping not to put you out. I’m sure sorry about this, Mr. Larsen, but we’re going to need to see you down at the station.”
“What about?”
“Oh, just tying up loose ends.”
I quickly text Joel that I’m on my way, then stow my phone in my pocket.
“Call my secretary and we’ll set up a time,” I say.
Simon smiles with the charm of car salesman. “Well, you see, some of this business is time sensitive. I’m going to need you to come with me.” He gestures to his car, a cheap, decade old hunk of junk. “I’m happy to give you a ride.”
I feel a prick of panic at the base of my neck, but I brush it off. This probably has to do with paperwork, or sorting through Father’s personal effects. I slide into the front seat of Simon’s car. While he apologizes for the mess of candy wrappers at my feet, I text Joel to let him know I’ll be late.
————————
I’m led to a windowless room. The florescent lighting casts a yellowish glow on the white, linoleum table and the dingy concrete walls. I’m given water in a paper cup, and told to wait. I think, grumbling, that relations of the deceased should be treated better. At least hang a painting on the wall.
I’m left waiting for close to an hour. I entertain myself by tearing the paper cup into tiny little pieces, and shooting daggers at the camera blinking in the corner. I take deep breaths, not letting my temper get a hold of me. If I don’t control myself, I’m liable to stand on this chair and punch that camera until it shatters. With each minute that passes, it becomes obvious that I’m not here to sort through the contents of my father’s pockets.
I think about barging out of the door, taking off someone’s head for wasting my time, but I know that wouldn’t be smart. The cell reception is shoddy here. I have to lift my phone high above my head to get a signal. When I finally do, I text Joel to get here right away. That was one of my father’s constant lessons as well. Always lawyer up. No matter what. Joel himself backs this up. I’m sure he’d say I should have called him before I ever drove away with that cop.
Ten minutes later, that thick door finally opens. I see Detective Simon first, smiling like a teacher on the first day of school. Joel emerges behind him, and pushes past Simon to get through there first. Joel nods as he takes a seat next to me. He’s carrying a briefcase, and has thrown a blazer over his polo. Joel’s tall and thin with a boyish face. He’ll probably never look a day over seventeen. I’ve often seen people underestimate him based on his appearance, which is a dire mistake.
“How long have you been holding my client?” Joel asks Simon.
Simon consults his clunky, digital watch, raising his eyebrows high into his forehead. “Hasn’t been too long.”
“It’s been over an hour,” I correct him.
Joel turns steely-eyed to the detective. “I haven’t had a chance to consult privately with my client. Could we have a few minutes?”
“I’m not quite sure why you’re here,” Simon says, leaning back and crossing his legs. “I only have a few questions for Mr. Larsen. It shouldn’t take long.” He leans forward, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’m curious why you felt the need to call your lawyer, Mr. Larsen.”
My eyes narrow into dark slits. “Because my father always told me you can’t trust a pig.”
“I understand your father had a few run-ins with the law,” Simon says. “And you have quite the rap sheet yourself. Though you always got off with a slap on the wrist. Man, are you lucky?”
&nbs
p; I push my shoulders forward, threateningly but subtle. It’s enough to make Simon jump. Joel turns to me and mouths, “Chill.” He turns back to Simon.
“What’s this about?” Joel says.
“Like I said, a few questions. Nothing to get so up in arms about,” Simon says, chuckling. He licks the tip of his finger, and flips open a folder. “Mr. Larsen, did your father have a history of mental illness?”
“Not that I know of,” I say quickly, prompting Joel to glare at me.
“Interesting,” Simon mumbles. “I understand you’re undergoing psychiatric treatment yourself. Is there a mental issue that runs in the family?”
“Wow, way out of line,” Joel says. “My client’s confidential records are no business of yours.”
Simon gets to the next question, not skipping a beat. “Did your father have any enemies?”
“Excuse me, Detective,” Joel says. “Mr. Larsen’s cause of death has been ruled a suicide. You appear to be conducting a murder investigation.”
“The medical examiner is looking back into the case,” Simon says. “Double checking a few details. I’m only doing my job.” He clears his throat with a grotesque hacking. “Mr. Larsen, can you tell me where you were the night of your father’s death, between the hours of two and six am?”
I straighten up, prepared to tell him that I was nowhere near Father’s office.
“Don’t answer that,” Joel says, quickly. He stands up, clutching his briefcase. “My client is under no legal obligation to answer your questions. And you can’t keep him here against his will.”
Simon remains calm. “Sure, he’s under no legal obligation. It seems he’d want to cooperate with us any way he could. That is, if he has nothing to hide.”
It dawns on me in a cold hard instant what this cocksucker is getting at. I lunge towards him, but Joel catches my shoulder. Simon retreats to a far corner of the room, though he still keeps that cold smile.
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